


I Am

by glacis



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:56:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scabbers spies, and gets himself some.  Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am

I Am, by seeker.  Written for the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest (Snape/Pettigrew pairing)

~~~

He'd gotten quite used to life as a rat.

Really, it wasn't all that different than life as a man, at least not for him. He went unnoticed unless it was to be insulted by the more attractive, more popular people around him. He stayed quiet until threatened, when he bit back viciously. He was a spectator to a life he wanted. He wanted more.

In the multitudes of hours that Peter Pettigrew spent as Scabbers, the Weasley family familiar, he'd grown accustomed to letting his brain idle. Not much more, really, one could do as a rat, except slink into small spaces and report back what one saw. Which is what he did when he wasn't being insulted by Ron or threatened by that Granger girl's mangy cat.

Under the idling, though, a mantra beat through his blood. "I am better than this. I am more than this. I am important, and clever, and damn it, somebody must like me."

Of course, he knew it was bullshit even as it rang through him, which is why he never brought it forth into the conscious level of his mind. The resolve could exist in the darkness of his subconscious. It would never survive the light of rational examination. Even at the level a rat could bring to it.

And he was almost always in the form of a rat.

Almost.

~~~

He scurried through the night-dark halls of Hogwarts, on his way to discover what he could of Dumbledore's plans against his Dark Lord. To spy out what tidbits he might, to lay at the feet of Lord Voldemort, and pray that this time it would be enough, and he would be free to be who he knew he could be.

Of course, it never was. But then, Peter had been a tool his entire life, being too weak, and too driven by fear, and too well aware of both, to be anything else. Still, he tried. Mainly because he didn't know what else to do. He scrabbled past the portrait guarding the door to Dumbledore's domain and spent several hours scrabbling through scrolls and assorted magical relics and molted phoenix feathers (did the man NEVER clean his office?) until he was famished and well past even a rat's boredom threshold.

Perched on a partially-gnawed book about, of all things, uses for freely-gained freshly decanted Unicorn's blood, he groomed his whiskers and wondered what to do next. Voldemort was a demanding and threatening overlord, but he wasn't particularly specific. "Go forth and bring me back useful information" didn't really give a rat a hell of a lot to go on. Before he could become thoroughly disgruntled, a noise startled him so badly he jumped a foot straight up, his hind claws catching the leather cover of the book and sending it crashing to the floor, causing a much louder noise than the one that frightened him.

He didn't wait to see what it was. He flew to the door, dodged the wards coming down to trap him, flew down the stairs, and didn't stop running until he hit the dungeons. Once there, he flung himself in an exhausted heap in the corner of Snape's office and panted until the red haze in front of his eyeballs finally started to clear.

"I am better than this," he thought fiercely. "I am!"

Still gasping a little, heartbeat only a tad less than thunderous in his ears, Scabbers staggered further into the comforting shadows of the dungeons. He could well understand why Snape seldom strayed from them. It was nice to have a place where one could feel hidden, even if there wasn't anyplace one could really hide. Especially from Voldemort. He felt vaguely naughty calling the Dark Lord by name, even in the privacy of his own mind, but then, after a night such as he'd had, stupefying boredom followed by mind-wrenching terror, he deserved a little naughtiness.

His nose bumped into linen, soft cotton brushing against the floor. Still muttering discontentedly, memories wandering down paths that always left him extremely cranky, he absently climbed the cloth. He'd always run behind, trying to catch up. He'd even become an animagus to try to be one of the gang, and what had it gotten him? Life as a rat and a truly disgusting nickname. Wormtail. Wormy. Ick. Still he kept trying. Trying to be as sexy as Sirius, as popular as James, as tragic as Remus, as smart as Snape, as evil as Vol ... well, maybe not quite that evil. Still, he'd always wanted to be more than he was. Have more than he had. Do more than he ...

His claws slipped and he squeaked, tumbling over the mound of bed linen to land with a soft thump against warm, lightly scented, soft skin. His tongue darted out to soothe his quivering whiskers, and instead lapped against the slightly salty barrier that had halted his fall.

Ooooooh. Nummies. He blinked, twitched his whiskers, and took another tiny lick.

The flesh beneath the skin rippled and the skin drew up in little goose pimples. From somewhere far to his right from the depths of the pillows, he heard a disgruntled, "Damnit, Mrs. Norris, go away." A long, slender hand swept out and over his head, scarcely missing him. He scrunched back as far as he could go, and the hand landed an inch away.

A moment later, the body stilled and the vague muttering smoothed into a sleeping breathing pattern. Scabbers stared at the hand. He knew that hand. He knew that voice.

He was in bed with Snape.

Mrs. Norris? What exactly was Filch getting up to that he didn't know about? Or was it just the cat?

Shaking the dizzying thoughts out of his little ratty brain, he licked his paws and cleaned his whiskers. The taste of Snape lingered on his fur. It was too delicious, really. And hadn't he just been thinking it was past time he was naughty?

Thought gave way to deed, an unusual occurrence for him, and in a trice, he scrabbled away from the inviting warmth of the Snape-shaped bundle under the blankets and over to the work table a foot or so away from the bed. The climb up the table leg was long and arduous but worth it, for when he got there, he carefully brushed past each and every bottle until he found precisely what he wanted.

Scabbers the rat elongated and de-furred into Peter Pettigrew. A small, pudgy hand snagged a bottle of Dreamless Sleep potion. Faster than he'd moved in human form in years, he crossed to the bed, tilted the bottle over Snape's partially-opened lips, and counted nine drops. In his sleep, Snape licked his lips. Peter nearly dropped the bottle.

Eyelashes flickered. Peter snatched back the bottle and melted back into the shadows. Eyes black as onyx glittered, began to sweep the room, grew hazy before the sweep was completed, and fell closed. Peter smiled.

It wasn't a pretty smile, but then, it seldom was, on Peter.

Stoppering the bottle, he placed it carefully back where he'd gotten it, muttering a cleaning spell as he did so Snape (or Dumbledore, for that matter) wouldn't find traces of his identity on it. Paranoid, true, but then, that was how he'd survived the past twelve years. Rampant paranoia, the ability to remain as a rat for ridiculously long periods of time, and an unmatched depth of arse kissing to the Dark Lord. He growled silently.

Tonight he would be more than Voldemort's lackey. Tonight he would have what he wanted, do what he would.

As soon as he made completely certain Snape wouldn't wake up and kill him in the middle of it.

Topping off the sleeping draught with a Bewitched Sleep spell, Peter at last allowed himself a deep breath. It was a little disconcerting staring down at Snape, who, due to the effects of the spell, wasn't breathing, and who, with his naturally vampiric coloring, looked rather like a beautiful corpse. Still, it had been a very long time since Peter'd looked at another human AS a human, and he'd always thought Snape was rather pretty.

Besides, it was much safer, and much easier, to fuck someone who couldn't get away and couldn't hex you for it.

With that cheering thought in mind, Peter climbed up on the bed, carefully spreading Snape's thighs and crawling up until he could kneel between them. Oh, if he'd been pretty awake, he was almost sinfully beautiful asleep. Asleep, Peter repeated to himself, not dead, even if he wasn't breathing. He put his hands hesitantly against Snape's face.

Warm. His skin was warm, even in the chill of the dungeon. It had been a long time since Peter had been warm. Even longer since he'd been in bed with another human who was naked, and he'd paid for the privilege then. Unable to stop himself, half afraid Snape would wake up even dosed and bespelled as he was, Peter leaned down and kissed Snape's mouth.

Soft, slack lips opened to give access to a relaxed tongue, and Peter groaned. He wanted Snape to kiss him back, but he wasn't a good enough wizard to cast an Imperius against someone as strong as Snape, even with a wand. Besides, Snape would know his secret then. So he'd just have to take what he could. As usual, but with an edge to it this time, because he was taking what he wanted to take, not taking what others would give him.

Breaking the one-sided kiss, he licked Snape's mouth, nibbled down his jaw line and snuffled against his neck. He didn't know what Snape bathed with, or if it was a result of all those potions steaming up at him, or if it was just his natural scent and Peter's own nose sharpened from so many years as a rat, but Snape smelled insanely delicious. Caught between the need to linger and the fear pushing him to rush, Peter explored Snape's neck, over his shoulders, down onto his chest, nuzzling and nibbling as he went.

There was the sparsest scattering of fur on Snape's chest, fine hair circling his nipples, and even asleep, he reacted when it was pulled. Peter tentatively moved from hair to nipple, taking one in his mouth and sucking ever-so-softly on it.

Snape moaned under his breath.

The sound went straight to Peter's prick. Suddenly, the fear was much less important than the lust. His mouth hardened on Snape's nipple, and the small bud tightened in response. A thought struck Peter, and he lifted his head to stare hard at Snape.

If a man didn't breathe under the Bewitched Sleep spell, how could he moan? Hands stilled against Snape's ribs, Peter stared for long moments at Snape's chest. No movement. He reached over and pinched a nipple. Snape gasped very lightly and moaned softly.

Ah. One breath, one moan. Not enough to break the spell. Still, he had to hurry. He knew his own limitations when it came to spell-casting, and even with the potion for insurance he was playing with fire. Plus there was the fact that his prick was swelled to bursting and he wasn't even halfway done exploring.

Hasty, hesitant, needy and desperate, his hands brushed over more and more of Snape's body. Nipples, the bend of his waist, the small of his back, behind his knees, the nape of his neck, his balls -- each drew another gasp and moan from Snape, and each time he did, Peter had to fight not to come. Gently, softly, hands shaking with want and fear, Peter turned Snape prone and put his hands on Snape's arse cheeks.

Soft and warm and thin and he wanted to crawl on top them and live there. But he didn't have time. And he simply had to have more. Leaking enough to at least get the head in, not bothering with lube because he didn't want to take the time, didn't know where it was, and had a suspicion Snape would wake up before he got round to it, Peter lined his prick up and started to work it in.

It was like sticking a wand in a pinhole. Snape was incredibly tight, and hotter than fire, and Peter whimpered with frustration when he realized he wasn't going to make it. Shoving mindlessly, he got nearly two thirds of his prick in before he came, unable to stop himself.

Shuddering, hands clenching the sheets on either side of Snape's hips, Peter sniffed, blinked back tears crowding his eyes, and watched his prick soften. It slipped out of Snape much easier than it had tried to go in, and it seemed to Peter to be the story of his life. Failure was always so much easier, and more natural, than success.

The legs on either side of his own suddenly moved, a barely-restrained thrashing as if Snape were in the midst of a nightmare, and Peter's fear rushed back like a tidal wave. Reacting instinctively, he morphed back into Scabbers. His paws scrabbled against Snape's inner thighs as he fell, nose-first, onto the sheets between Snape's thighs.

Snape moved again as he fought, even doped unconscious, to throw off the spell. Scabbers looked up, just in time to catch a glob of his own spunk in the face as it dripped down from Snape's arse. He couldn't help it. He sneezed. Then he licked his whiskers.

He didn't taste particularly good. His nose wrinkled. Or smell all that great, either.

The legs moved again. Scabbers ran like hell to keep from getting squashed flat as Snape threw off the last of the spell and groggily rolled over in bed. Sprinting down the sheet to the floor, then up the stairs to the Gryffindor dorm, he threw himself into Ron's bed and rubbed his face against the bed linens until all the gooey glop was gone.

It was a very long night. He spent most of it glaring up at the ceiling and wondering why nothing he ever did went right.

The next morning he hid in Ron's robes and went down to breakfast, hoping to catch a glimpse of Snape. Maybe he'd get lucky, and Snape would squirm, or look uncomfortable, and he'd know he made an impression, even if nobody else, including Snape himself, knew he'd been there.

Snape swirled in, all imposing robes and calm demeanor, and plopped himself down on the chair. Nary a wince. Scabbers' eyes widened. Snape suddenly stared over at the table. Surely he was discovered! Surely he'd made SOME mark on the man's mind! Snape's piercing black gaze swept up to -- and past -- him. Settled on James' son. Turned to ice.

Scabbers sighed, rolled himself up in a ball in Ron's pocket, and cried himself to sleep. In the back of his mind, very very quietly, he muttered, "I'm better than this. I am." Even his subconscious didn't believe him anymore.

END


End file.
